


and we can light a match and burn it down

by yeeharley



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Harley Keener Whump, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Peter Parker Whump, Protective Harley Keener, Protective Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27712832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeeharley/pseuds/yeeharley
Summary: “Oh,” the prince whispers hoarsely.Even from a few feet away, Harley can see the way his hands shake as he raises them, holds them out in front of himself as if they can shield him from the wickedly-sharp blade.Oh?“What’s your name?” Harley demands, tilting his head to one side and furrowing his brow at the way the prince flinches.He says nothing.Harley crosses the room in three long strides, lashing out to press his forearm against his neck and pushing him against the nearest wall. “I asked for your name,” he repeats, knife poised at his side. “And I expect you to give it to me.”Wide, dark eyes stare up at him. The prince is motionless, trembling against Harley’s arm. He reaches up and places both hands on his skin as if to hold himself up.Harley’s barely able to control the tremor that wracks his body at the contact.“P-Peter.”
Relationships: Harley Keener & Harley Keener's Mother, Harley Keener & Harley Keener's Sister & Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Obadiah Stane & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Harley Keener
Comments: 19
Kudos: 274





	and we can light a match and burn it down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shaderose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaderose/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Father's Promise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26561872) by [Shaderose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaderose/pseuds/Shaderose). 



> Hey, everyone! This fic is for shadedrose01 because. Incredible showstopping amazing never done before ily shade <3\. I hope everyone enjoys and feel free to comment or follow me over on my tumblr (silver-bubbles) if you'd like updates or to watch me be an idiot. Much love :)

He climbs through the window just after midnight on the third of October, cloaked under a dark, starless sky, clouds full of what promises to be a punishing rain heavy overhead. The wind whistles through the trees and strips their leaves away, sends them flying through the air with a rustling sound akin to pages turning. The village is quiet, dormant, a sleeping monster lying in the shadow of the craggy mountainside.

The knife in the pocket of his trousers is long, running at least the full length of his forearm in blade alone. It bounces with every step he takes despite all of his care, a stead reminder of what he is about to do.

Of what it will lead to.

The point keeps poking his thigh, and he’s sure there’ll be marks left over when all of this is done. The pain will keep him grounded, though. Present.

He can’t stop.

It simply isn’t an option.

The boy has been training for this moment for his entire life, preparing for it, steeling himself against the inevitable. He’s finally here- nineteen and strong enough, _ ruthless  _ enough to do what he must do.

He can carry out this task.

He may be afraid- the sharp pain in his stomach is an ever-present reminder of the trepidation that lies deep in his bones- but he is not a coward.

He has  _ never  _ been a coward.

The castle is still, lightless in the dark night, and even from this angle in the thicket of trees, he can pick out the single lit window that he’ll enter through. The dancing light of what must be a candle (much too dim to be a lamp) is cast out onto the second-floor balcony, flickering like the sun on a half-clouded day.

The boy takes a deep breath, pulling the hood of his cloak over a mop of unruly curls, and darts out of the shadow of the thicket. Heart pounding, breath quiet, he darts across the shadowed courtyard to the base of the castle, stopping just below the balcony so that, should anyone choose to step out onto it, he’ll be entirely hidden.

The knife stabs his leg again, this time just above the knee. Biting back a hiss, he draws it out of its pocket and sets it between his teeth, wincing at the sudden flood of metal that enters his mouth before wedging his fingers into the stone cracks of the castle, entwining his limbs in the ivy, and beginning to climb.

It’s only two stories- he knows he should, logically, be able to move much, much faster than he is, especially considering his height and the amount of time he’s put into training. Something seems to be holding him back. Slowing him down.

An anchor in the back of his mind, buzzing over and over again:  _ warning. Warning. Warning. _

_ Be careful. _

_ Turn back. Turn back. _

_ It’s not too late. _

He shakes those thoughts off quickly, encompassed in sudden disgust for himself- he’s going to take back what’s rightfully his, right here, right now, and he’s going to revel in the joy that his inheritance brings him.

The inhabitants of this castle have taken  _ so much  _ from his people.

It’s time for him to do the same.

The balcony is covered in vines, and there’s a moment where the man’s foot catches in a small loop and he barely manages to catch himself, clamping his hands down on the stone railing. A single pebble topples off of the platform with a quiet clatter, hitting the stones below and rolling out of the circle of light encompassing the window.

He freezes.

Listens.

Waits.

There’s no sound, no hint that anyone inside has any idea that there’s an intruder. The candle flickers once. Returns to its original strength.

The sound of a book closing echoes like thunder, bouncing off of the walls until it reaches his ears. He can tell very little from this position, but the room’s inhabitant-  _ the prince-  _ seems to be only a few feet away from the window.

There’s a quiet sigh from inside. The sound of shuffling feet. The crash of a glass breaking, followed by a muttered curse.

It is with careful, catlike grace that, creeping over the railing and onto the balcony, that Harley Keener finally steps into the light of the bedroom. His eyes adjust nearly immediately- after all, the candle is dim at best and flickering out with every second.

The room is smaller than he thought it would be.

Scarcer.

The only furniture is a cot tucked into one corner and a bookshelf directly opposite it, stocked with rows and rows of novels. The candle sits on a small stack of textbooks, right in the middle of the room. Wax drips onto the floor and hardens there in small puddles.

Harley takes everything in quickly, noting the door in the wall directly across from him and the severe lack of weaponry and the broken cup that lies in shards on the bare stone floor. None of that is to his particular interest, though- after all, his true target is bent over on his knees, head turned away from the window, whispering angrily to himself as he picks up pieces of broken glass.

He’s very small, knelt down like that, and Harley honestly thinks it a wonderful turn of events. A peasant kneeling before the soon-to-be king.

Well. A soon-to-be-dead prince. 

But the irony isn’t lost on him.

Harley carefully steps through the floor-length window, prising the knife from between his teeth, and stops just beyond the threshold. The prince is wonderfully oblivious to his presence, still frantically gathering up little pieces of china, and for a moment, Harley thinks he could just finish it now without all of the fanfare. Quick and easy, a knife to the back, and all of his problems are over and done.

A knife to the back, and he’s  _ king. _

_ But a knife to the back isn’t terribly fair _ , he thinks, reaching up with his free hand to pull the hood away from his face.  _ And that would rid the situation of the satisfaction he intends to get from this. _

Harley clears his throat, loud in the relative silence, and holds back a chuckle as the prince whirls around to face him and throws himself to his feet, right hand groping around for a weapon and coming up with none.

There’s a moment where his dark hair settles around his face, where his eyes come into the candlelight and explode with red and gold sparks, where the fear seems to register in his expression and he sucks in a deep, sharp breath.

Harley can see when the prince notices the knife. He stands very still, watching the shorter man for any sign of an urge to run, expecting him to dash for the door or try to fight.

But he does nothing.

Just… stands there, shoulders sagging visibly under the thin fabric of his grey tunic, wide eyes fixed on the knife in Harley’s hand.

“Oh,” the prince whispers hoarsely. 

Even from a few feet away, Harley can see the way his hands shake as he raises them, holds them out in front of himself as if they can shield him from the wickedly-sharp blade.

_ Oh? _

“What’s your name?” Harley demands, tilting his head to one side and furrowing his brow at the way the prince flinches. 

He says nothing.

Harley crosses the room in three long strides, lashing out to press his forearm against his neck and pushing him against the nearest wall. “I asked for your  _ name _ ,” he repeats, knife poised at his side. “And I expect you to  _ give it to me. _ ”

Wide, dark eyes stare up at him. The prince is motionless, trembling against Harley’s arm. He reaches up and places both hands on his skin as if to hold himself up.

Harley’s barely able to control the tremor that wracks his body at the contact.

“P-Peter.”

The word is quiet, barely even a noise at all, but Harley hears it and processes it the minute it leaves the prince’s-  _ Peter’s-  _ lips. He nods, running a calculating glance over his target's defensive posture, before releasing him and stepping back just an inch or so.

Peter sags when the arm disappears from his throat, sucking a rattling breath into his lungs, and shrinks back against the wall. His eyes are fixed in the shining blade that Harley holds aloft, positioned just adjacent to Peter’s heart, ready to strike at the first sign of resistance.

There is none.

“Peter,” he murmurs, feeling out the way the name leaves his mouth. “ _ Peter. _ ”

The man in question nods, eyes traveling up from the knife to fix on Harley’s. His throat bobs once. Twice.

“Please.”

For a second, Harley can’t seem to process the quiet plea. He takes a cursory step backward, knife hand falling an inch or so, before gathering himself up and glaring down at Peter with all the anger he can muster.

“Pleading won’t get you anything now,” he growls, extending the blade so that it rests against his adam’s apple. 

Peter squeezes his eyes closed, gritting his teeth, and stills.

“ _ Please, _ ” he says again, and this time, a tear leaks down the side of his face. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“The only way I can get what I want,” Harley murmurs, “is by killing you,  _ my prince. _ And I  _ plan  _ to get what I want.”

“I’ve done nothing.”

Peter’s chest shudders. His face is pale and drawn, and for a moment, he opens his eyes to glance up at Harley’s before closing them abruptly when the knife accidentaly presses just a  _ bit  _ too hard.

A bead of blood wells up around the tip and drips down his collarbone, seeping into the neck of his tunic. 

“Please, I’ve done  _ nothing  _ to hurt anybody,” Peter says, staring up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for a divine miracle. “I’ve never harmed anyone, and I don’t wish to- sir-”

Harley frowns, pulling the knife back, and does a more thorough up-and-down appraisal of the boy against the wall. His tunic is dirty, spattered with charcoal and smudges of soil, and his pants are in no better condition. There’s a bruise in the crook of his elbow matching the shape of a large hand, another yellowing one at his wrist, and a bandage is wrapped around two of his fingers like a splint.

He looks much younger than Harley had been expecting. He’s eighteen himself, but the target prince that he’d been told about had been much  _ larger  _ than the one standing across from him. Older, too. 

And he’d been expecting a certain level of  _ finery _ about this place that he definitely isn’t seeing.

“You’re a  _ child, _ ” he hisses, taking a sudden step back at the panic that floods his body and nearly tripping over the dying candle. “What in the world- what  _ happened  _ here?”

The look of offense that passes over Peter’s face is almost funny. He squints his eyes, balling a pair of frail fists at his side as if he’s about to clock Harley across the cheek, and huffs out an angry breath.

“I’m no more a child than you,” he says hotly, shuffling away from the wall. “I’m nearly eighteen, and nothing  _ happened  _ here, you  _ bastard. _ There’s a damn  _ famine  _ about.”

A famine.

A famine, in the kingdom Harley’s been destined to overthrow and rule.

A  _ famine. _

Of course, it isn’t terribly surprising to hear that something’s happened that he hadn’t known about- his people haven’t lived in the Iron Kingdom in  _ decades _ , not since they were driven out, and to his knowledge, nobody’s bothered to check in on the state of things.

But does he  _ really  _ want to inherit a kingdom mid-famine?

“And the bruises?” He asks, thinking of a time when he’d been too young to defend himself and his father had been an angry-eyed presence in his life.

Peter’s expression falls. He bites his lip, covering up the fingerprints on his wrist with his sleeve, and averts his eyes in what looks like shame.

“My father’s lead counselor doesn’t like me very much,” he says.

It takes only a moment for Harley to rearrange his plan in his head, running through a few more possible outcomes and decisions before choosing his path. What’s the point in killing the heir of a failing nation, after all? What does he have to gain for this except for the needless death of a starving boy, barely younger than he is?

There’s simply no reason to kill Peter. It would be a waste of blood.

But there’s the question of what Harley is to do now that he’s been seen, and taking into consideration the fact that his would-be victim is being abused- well. Harley remembers how that had felt, how helpless he had been, and he can’t seem to let himself stand by and allow this to continue.

Peter could be a useful bargaining chip, anyway.

“Come with me,” Harley says, sheathing the knife in a single fluid motion and extending his hand into the space between himself and the cowering boy. 

When Peter doesn’t take it, he repeats himself, this time more forcefully. He looks up defiantly, the anger in his eyes a startling difference from the fear that had been there only minutes before, and  _ spits  _ at Harley’s feet.

“I won’t be killed in the woods like a lame horse,” he growls. “Do it here or don’t do it at all.”

Harley blinks slowly, looking from the glob of saliva on his shoe to Peter and back to his shoe. Wrinkling his nose, he uses his other foot to brush it off as much as he can before looking back up.

Peter’s eyes, however filled with defiance, contain a very strong undercurrent of fear. He’s afraid of Harley- and he damn well should be- but, for some odd reason, Harley doesn’t  _ want  _ him to be.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says, trying to lower his voice as much as he can to provide some semblance of comfort. He extends his hand again, this time palm-down, offering the boy his forearm as if he’s escorting a lady. “I’ve no intention of hurting you, Peter. My name is Harley.”

Peter’s eyes land on his arm, flickering up to his face. He moves shakily away from the wall, hesitance clear in each step he takes, and places his hand on top of Harley’s wrist.

His touch is featherlight. Each of his fingers is spindly and thin, and the bones are all painfully clear in the low light. Clearly a victim of famine- Harley’s been trained to notice so much, how could he not have seen it?

He tries for a reassuring smile before stepping toward the open window, Peter stumbling along beside him like a newborn colt. The candle is nearly dead now, surrounded by wax drippings and half-read books and glass.

“I’ve some food in a rucksack in the forest,” Harley murmurs, noting the careful way Peter steps around the broken cup. “Shoes?”

The shorter boy just shakes his head, eyes fixed on the window. 

He’ll ruin his feet walking around in the woods without shoes, but Harley can’t worry about that right now. The first rays of light are shimmering over the horizon, turning the sky a pale purple- it must be nearly morning now, and they’ll have to move quickly if they want to escape undetected.

“C’mon,” Harley grunts, lifting Peter up onto the railing and helping him grip the vines with his thin fingers. “Start climbin’ down, now. I’ll be right behind you.”

He expects to have to help him to the ground, but Peter moves much more fluidly against the wall than he had on solid ground despite his weak facade. Harley hops over the railing just behind him, not bothering to pull his hood up over his curls, and follows, stretching out his arm again once his feet are once again planted in the earth.

“Ready to go?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

Peter takes his arm, linking his hand under Harley’s elbow, and smiles-  _ smiles this incredible, apollo-esque, beaming grin that could probably outshine the sun, whoa-  _ before nodding.

“Please, Harley,” he says, and the sound of his voice in Peter’s mouth is nothing short of beautiful.

They jog off into the trees, Harley shortening his strides as much as he can to give Peter a bit of comfort space, and disappear just before the first hint of sun rises above the horizon.

-

They walk in silence for a few hours, elbows linked under the ever-intensifying light of the sun. Harley’s cloak swishes around his knees, the only sound other than the crunching of twigs and pinestraw under their feet and Peter’s careful breaths.

The birds are silent. It’s eerie, this shroud of quiet that seems to follow them around.

Harley has walked this forest many times before by himself, and he doesn’t think that it’s ever been quite this calm. There’s a weightless air about it, like the scent of ozone just before lightning strikes when it feels like, just for that moment, you could float away.

Beside him, Peter stumbles over a small stone and swears, tone biting and angry. His arm jolts in Harley’s grasp as he pulls away and sits, gripping his foot in his hands.

“Ah,  _ fuck _ .”

Harley snorts out a quiet laugh. 

“You alright?” He asks, sweeping the fabric of his cloak out of the way so that he can bend down and ignoring the way his knife scratches at the top of his leg. Peter looks up, lip caught between his teeth, and shrugs.

He doesn’t have any shoes. Harley should’ve known this wouldn’t work out- by the time they get back to his home, the boy’s feet’ll be scratched up beyond measure.

Sighing, Harley shakes his head and kneels down in front of Peter’s spot on the ground. “May I?”

Peter raises an eyebrow before nodding, waving a hand at his foot in a silent invitation. Harley takes his foot in his hands, inspecting the little red scratches and flecks of blood scattered over his bare sole.

“You’ll never make it like this.”

Peter’s tone is terribly sad and quiet as he pulls his foot back, resting his head on his knees. He watches Harley like an injured animal, eyes tracking his every movement.

“I haven’t a choice,” he murmurs. “Have I?”

They’re quiet for a moment, watching each other carefully. Harley slowly draws himself up to his feet, staring down at Peter’s small form, and stretches his hand into the gap between them.

“C’mere,” he says, voice soft and careful. This is how he speaks to Abby, how he speaks to the other children in his village. Tone measured, words careful, nonthreatening as he can possibly be.

Peter grips the outstretched hand with both of his own and allows Harley to pull him to his feet, gritting his teeth as he straightens up fully. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Harley turns, then, so that Peter is standing behind him, before patting the small of his back with his free hand. “C’mon, now,” he says, snickering at the confused sound Peter makes. “We needa be movin’ faster, prince of mine.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. Peter’s weight is light and his movements are careful; he places both of his hands on Harley’s shoulders, warm and gentle, before slowly boosting himself up to wrap his legs around Harley’s waist and link his feet in front of his chest.

Harley carefully grips the undersides of Peter’s thighs, wincing at the lack of added weight, before he starts walking again. The boy on his back is quiet, hands joined just below Harley’s neck in a way that sends shivers down his spine for  _ some  _ reason.

He wants to kick himself. Hard. Right then and there.

_ Not allowed. _

But the way Peter rests his head on Harley’s shoulder, hair tickling his jaw, is so tender and  _ innocent _ .

Harley keeps walking, traveling forward, but his mind is stuck somewhere far, far away, filled with quiet laughs and thin fingers and dark, doelike eyes.

He’s known he was different for a very, very long time now.

This is just the first time that difference has manifested.

-

It’s dark by the time Harley and Peter reach the village, and the former’s feet are aching despite his shoes. He’s tired beyond tired, practically dead on his feet as he moves between trees in that ever-familiar pattern, having walked at least eight hours to the castle and nine or ten from with the added (however insignificant) weight on his shoulders.

Peter had fallen asleep after a few hours of being carried. Now, his head is drooping against Harley’s neck, bouncing just slightly with each step. His hands are limp, no longer clasped together, and the way he’s slumped with his chest against Harley’s back means that the only thing keeping him from falling to the ground is the firm grip he has on his passenger’s legs.

Harley’s about to collapse and take a nap right there in the middle of the woods when the glowing yellow lights of his family’s settlement comes into view, bouncing off of the craggy rocks that keep their home safe and hidden. He breaks into a jog, carefully aware of the body on his back, ready to rest as soon as the white linens on his mother’s clothesline come into view.

Abby is the first out of the house- she’s never been able to sleep very well, and Harley can’t imagine that he’s being quiet. Her braids shine gold in the torchlight, the same color as his hair, swinging about as she dashes toward him.

“Harley!” She chirps, dodging around the clothesline, short legs pumping beneath her. “Harley, did you-  _ oh! _ ”

He sees the moment Abby sees Peter, shock registering in her eyes as she skids to a halt. She looks horrified, one hand coming up to point at the head of curls resting against his shoulder, blue eyes as large as saucers.

“You brought the  _ body?”  _ She hisses, nose wrinkled. “ _ Harley,  _ dear  _ God- _ ”

Harley is quick to shake his head, wincing as Peter’s head bumps up against his collarbone- that  _ can’t  _ feel good. “No, no- Abby, he’s not dead,  _ Abby- _ ”

If anything, that seems to make her even more panicked, because she storms forward and stops just a foot or so in front of them. “Whaddaya  _ mean  _ he’s not dead? You didn’t  _ do it?” _

The wrath of Abby is nothing compared to the fear he had been feeling while he’d been sneaking into the castle to commit a  _ murder _ . Harley takes a step back, mindful of the boy resting against him, and shakes his head.

“I couldn’t, Abby,” he says pleadingly, unable to free up his hands to reason with her. “The kingdom’s in  _ famine _ \- he was  _ starvin’ _ and I couldn’t go through with it. We’ve got more than enough here-”

“He’s a damn  _ prince! _ He don’t  _ need  _ our help-”

“Abby,  _ please  _ quiet down-”

Too late. The white covering of the tent ruffles in the darkness before giving way as a larger carbon copy of his sister makes her way out of the door, rubbing her eyes tiredly. 

“Mom!” Abby exclaims, casting a triumphant look in Harley’s direction. “Mom-”

“ _ No _ , Abby.”  _ God,  _ she’s going to be so  _ disappointed.  _ Harley’s mother had never wanted him to do this, but when he had started training by order of their leaders so that he could retake his rightful spot at the throne, she had  _ encouraged  _ him and now he’s back with the prince and he’s a  _ coward- _

“Who’s that, Harley?” Macy asks, taking Abby by the elbow and shushing her quickly to calm her down. He can see, though, in her eyes, that she already knows.

Harley dips his head down, eyes fixed on the ground in front of his feet, cheeks red with shame.

“I couldn’t do it,” he whispers, wincing as Peter moves his head against his shoulder in his sleep. “They’re in a famine, momma, an’ he was starvin’- they were hittin’ ‘im, too, mom-”

Macy’s eyes are sharp as she moves to stand in front of her son, tilting his head up before taking in the boy on his back. She reaches out, and it takes every bit of control Harley has not to lean back when she runs a hand through Peter’s hair and pulls his head back gently to look at his face.

“He’s my age,” Harley whispers, eyes fixed on her expressionless face. “Momma, he’s just a kid.”

Macy’s lips turn down. She gently releases Peter’s head, setting it back down on Harley’s shoulder, before beckoning for him to follow.

She’s always been compassionate. He’s not at all surprised that that compassion is extended to an abused kid.

After all, Harley has no doubt that, when she looks at Peter, she sees him when he was younger. Before her husband had left- before they’d been able to force him out, really.

“Alright, Harls,” she murmurs, pushing the sheet that makes up the door of their home and gently pushing an angry-looking Abby inside. “Lay down, now. You must be tired.”

He nods before ducking inside, head brushing against the top of the doorframe. The house is just as he had left it- small but neat, lit with the kerosene lamps they have lying around. Abby and his mother’s bed is neatly made and pushed up against one wall, and his is in the opposite corner, blankets folded over each other.

“Go on and set him down,” Macy murmurs, turning down Harley’s quilt. He does as he’s told, crouching down so he can set Peter on his bed before standing and stretching his aching back. Miraculously, he’s still fast asleep, sharp cheekbones shadowed against his face, eyelashes dark and long, lips just barely parted.

He’s beautiful, Peter, despite his thin features and bruised skin.

Harley’s quick to draw the unused blade from his pocket and set it down on top of his trunk before undoing the clasp of his cloak and putting it aside, leaving himself in a loose top and his good work pants. Abby shoots him one last glare, huffing angrily, before plopping herself down on her bed and turning to face the wall.

“Don’t worry about her,” Macy whispers before pressing a warm bowl of what looks like soup into Harley’s hands. “Eat, Harley. Then you can rest.”

Despite how much he wants to take that offer, the hollowed-out features of Peter’s face are too prominent to ignore. Harley shakes his head, catching his lip between his teeth.

“Gotta feed him, too,” he insists, waving a hand in Peter’s direction. “There enough for him?”

“Of course.” She’s already reaching for another bowl. “Have to wake him, though. Keep him calm.”

Harley nods, sets his bowl down on the little wooden table, and sits down on the edge of his bed before gently reaching out and shaking Peter’s bony shoulder. The boy shifts, just barely, eyebrows crinkling in his sleep.

Harley shakes him again. This time, Peter tenses- he can feel the moment every muscle in his body activates and freezes, because  _ oh.  _ He remembers this- that feeling of helplessness and weakness when you tense for the blow you know is coming.

“Peter,” Harley croons, moving his hand to the crook of his elbow and resting it there. “Peter, it’s okay. Wake up, darlin’.”

_ Wow. He doesn’t know where that came from. _

He can feel Macy’s surprised eyes on his back, but he doesn’t turn away from Peter, instead smiling as the boy carefully opens his eyes. He squints against the dim light, focusing in on Harley.

It obviously takes him a moment to remember. Peter purses his lips, eyes flickering from Harley to his mother and back to Harley. It seems like he wants to say something, but he stays quiet, carefully watching the room’s inhabitants like his life depends on his attentiveness.

In this situation, it probably does.

“Hey,” Harley murmurs, trying for a reassuring smile. “You’re safe, Peter. S’alright.”

Peter blinks drowsily, gravitating back to Macy, who lifts a hand in greeting before passing a second bowl to Harley.

“This is my mother,” Harley says. Then, pointing to Abby, “My sister.”

Peter waves, still very obviously confused, before looking to the bowl in Harley’s hands. His pupils dilate noticeably when he sees the contents. Harley stifles a laugh.

“I’m gonna help you sit up so you can eat, alright?”

Peter nods rapidly, eyes still fixed on the bowl. This time, when Harley touches him, he doesn’t tense, instead allowing him to help him sit. Harley tilts him so that his back rests up against the wall before passing the bowl over, frowning when he sees how Peter’s hands shake.

Hesitantly, the brown-haired boy lifts it to his lips and tilts just a sip into his mouth, throat convulsing as he swallows it. He closes his eyes for a moment, shoulders relaxing, before taking another small sip.

Harley drinks his own soup quickly, watching Peter out of the corner of his eye, before unlacing his shoes and kicking them under his bed where he won’t step on them.

Once Peter finishes and hands the bowl back to Macy with a quiet  _ thank you _ , he turns to Harley with an apologetic smile. “Am I stealing your bed?”

_ Technically, yes. _

“Nah, it’s alright,” Harley murmurs, winking as nonchalantly as he can. “I can sleep on the floor tonight.”

Eyes wide, Peter shakes his head quickly, squishing himself up against the wall. “No, you don’t have to- this is your  _ house-” _

“And you’re our guest,” Macy interjects.

“The only other option is for me to sleep in the same bed as you,” Harley smiles, trying to keep the desire out of his voice. “An’ I’m assuming that’s not what you want, Peter.”

To his surprise, Peter shrugs, averting his gaze to the empty side of the bed. 

“I wouldn’t mind,” he whispers, cheeks flushing red.

Harley tries to hide his shock with a smirk. He’s never been good at that, though- he’s sure that, even if Peter doesn’t see it, Macy does. 

“If you insist,” he says, quickly sweeping his legs under the covers and pulling them up over his chest, settling in on his back and closing his eyes.

The mattress shifts after a few moments of silence. Harley remains still as Peter resituates himself, shifting under the covers.

The kerosene lamps flicker off before he has the courage to open his eyes and look over at the boy in his bed. Peter’s lying on his side, buried under blankets with his head on the pillow, eyes closed gently. With every breath he takes, a dark curl in front of his nose shifts.

Harley smiles, closes his eyes, and drifts off to the sound of gentle breathing. It’s the first full night of sleep he’s had in months.

-

“No- no, hold it  _ that  _ way-  _ Peter,  _ for God’s sake-”

Harley stifles a sigh as Peter readjusts his grip on his knife for the third time in as many minutes, wincing as his fingers trip over the handle and he nearly drops it on his foot. He has no hand-eye coordination whatsoever- Harley should know, he’s been trying to teach him how to  _ hold  _ a knife for  _ two days. _

Peter sighs, blinking rapidly, and presses the handle of the blade back into Harley’s hand before shaking his head. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he murmurs, eyes on the dirt beneath his bare feet.

_ It probably isn’t, _ Harley thinks. He doesn’t say it, though; Peter’s been having a hard enough time adjusting to this change and he’s really doing his best.

At least he’s trying.

“Hey,” Harley murmurs, placing a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder and trying to ignore the way he twitches. “S’alright, Peter. No worries.”

He doesn’t seem very reassured, though. Harley hasn’t learned very much about Peter over the last few days despite the way he’s stuck to the smaller boy’s side, but he does know one thing- he’s a perfectionist, and if he doesn’t get something right, the amount of anger he feels toward himself is  _ ungodly _ .

“Sorry,” Peter whispers, bending down to sit with his knees folded beneath his body. Harley follows, slowly as if not to spook a wounded animal, and sheathes the knife in his pants pocket before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“Nothing to apologize for.”

They lapse into silence, then, tucked away in the middle of the forest, a few miles away from Harley’s mother’s house. Peter’s thin fingers are shaking- although he’s filled out a bit over the course of the last few days, his bones still give off the impression of those of a baby bird. 

He shakes most of the time. Just little tremors in his hands, his shoulders. Harley doesn’t know why. 

He doesn’t know if he wants to ask, either.

“You know, it’s okay if you don’t want to learn.”

Peter looks up, eyes wide. In the sunlight that filters through the trees, the brown of his irises is more of a honey-ish color, and Harley can see every little shape that takes form within them.

“No, I- I want to,” he says, absently tracing shapes into the palm of his left hand. “I’ve just- I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Harley knows he shouldn’t press.

He does anyway.

“Your father never taught you to defend yourself? He asks, carefully watching Peter’s expression for any changes. There are none.

Peter shrugs. “No. It wasn’t- wasn’t really his main priority. Did yours?”

_ Ah, there’s the question. _

“Taught me how to take a beating,” Harley murmurs, wincing as Peter blanches. His face seems to pale almost immediately, dropping from its normal china-white pallor to gray.

“I had no idea.”

He has to hold a laugh back there, and a snicker manages to sneak its way out despite all of his best efforts.

“I didn’t tell you,” he says, smiling as Peter’s cheeks flush apple-red. “How would you have known?”

“I-”

This time, Harley does laugh, a full-blown cackle born from the depths of his stomach. “Peter,” he breathes, sucking a deep breath in through his nose. “I’m  _ teasing  _ you. It’s  _ okay. _ ”

Peter’s quiet for a moment, brow furrowed, eyes fixed on something below Harley’s nose. There’s a second where Harley wonders if he’s gone too far- after all, everyone’s coping mechanism is different. Where his is humor, Peter’s might be entirely different. He might have crossed a line-

And then Peter laughs, clear and high and  _ beautiful _ , and Harley forgets to worry.

His laugh is bluebell flowers in grassy meadows, bubbling brooks over polished stones, birds chirping in the early morning when golden light is  _ just  _ beginning to top the horizon.

_ God,  _ if Harley could just listen to that forever.

“Then I suppose I  _ have  _ been trained,” Peter says, grinning at Harley like he’s pulled the moon up from space.

He wants to smash in the face of every person on this earth who’s ever placed an angry hand on this  _ beautiful,  _ beautiful boy. Suddenly, he understands exactly how his mother felt when she’d found out how his father had been hurting him; Harley doesn’t think he’s ever  _ hated  _ someone so much.

“Is your father a good man?” He asks.

Peter nods, smiling slightly. The cold feeling in Harley’s chest lets up a bit at the knowledge that Peter’s father,  _ king _ , hasn’t lain a hand on his son.

But someone has.

The bruises are fading with every day, less visible every morning, but there are still fingerprints left on Peter’s wrists. Harley takes one in his hand, turning it over so that Peter’s palm is facing upwards, and strokes a gentle finger over the markings.

Peter lets him, eyes fixed on his face all the while, an unreadable expression painted across his features. His pulse is pounding beneath Harley’s fingers.

“You said your father’s advisor did this?” He asks, resting the pad of his index finger over a large print set over the most visible vein in Peter’s wrist. The mark is dark blue, much less faded than the others, and Harley’s finger is barely smaller than this one.

Peter nods, very, very still in Harley’s grasp.

“Stane,” he whispers, lower lip trembling. “He- the famine has everyone on edge, and I just-” A quiet, choppy breath. “I guess I get in the way too often.”

_ God.  _

Harley works to keep his tone level, stroking two fingers up and down Peter’s forearm. “He had no right to hurt you,” he whispers, staring down at the watercolor against his skin. “No matter what, nobody ever has the right to hurt you.”

Peter sniffs. Chokes back a quiet sob, still watching as Harley’s fingers dance over his arm, eyes wide and teary. Kaleidoscopic.

“You’re safe here.” He’s never going to let anyone hurt this boy again.  _ Never. _

-

It all comes to a head after Peter’s been living with the Keeners for a week, and when it happens, it  _ happens. _

Of course, Harley had known that, eventually, it would- there was no way a king would let his son disappear into thin air without bothering to look, and even though their little settlement is miles and miles into the forest, they always fell into search radiuses from surrounding kingdoms.

He had known it would happen.

So why does he feel so sick when it does?

Peter’s getting stronger, filling out. His fingers are still spindly little spiders’ legs, but when he changes, his ribs are barely visible and he’s got just a  _ bit  _ of muscle lining his stomach. He shakes less, smiles more, speaks clearly.

It’s only taken that one week for Harley to feel something he never thought he would- never  _ hoped  _ he would, really. Peter is just- he’s  _ incredible,  _ there’s no way to articulate it. With his big eyes and soft curls and quiet voice, with his careful way of speaking, with his lovely bell of a laugh, Harley never stood a chance.

He  _ wants. _

Doesn’t really know  _ what  _ he wants, exactly, but that desire lies deep in the pit of his stomach and rumbles every time Peter smiles at him or speaks or  _ breathes. _ Harley is  _ gone-  _ gone in a way that the Bible decrees sinful, gone in a way that his village would never allow.

Gone in a way that both his mother and his sister seem to be able to recognize.

(Macy pulls him aside one night, after Peter’s fallen asleep on his side of their bed- the side closest to the wall, because Harley knows that he feels safe with all of his sides covered. She smiles, winking conspiratorily, and jerks her head in the sleeping boy’s direction.

“You care for him?”

Harley’s barely able to splutter his way through an explanation, and once he’s made it to his conclusion-  _ no, no, he’s a friend-  _ both his mother and Abby are left laughing like hyenas.

“It’s alright,” Macy whispers, smiling gently. “I remember how it felt.”)

Regardless of any attached feelings, they’re  _ happy _ . A little unit hidden away in the backwoods of a hostile kingdom, hidden prince integrated into their midst, dancing beneath dappled leaves of green and brown and smiling like nobody can hurt them.

So that’s why it hurts more when someone finally does.

There’s no warning, no precursor, no way for them to escape. Macy and Abby are out gathering sorrel in a field several miles west, and Peter and Harley are outside in their usual spot- a sunlit clearing full of daisies and little blue flowers. 

Peter’s only a few inches away, leant up against Harley’s shoulder with his head tilted low toward the ground. His fingers work nimbly, deftly, as he braids a little chain of white petals into what looks like a crown. There’s already one perched atop his curls, this chain made of the baby-blue flowers, a sharp contrast against his dark hair.

Harley hums to himself, a quiet, nondescript tune that he can’t remember the words of. His back is pressed up against the bark of a fallen tree, hands folded into his lap, eyes fixed firmly on Peter’s hands as he twists the stems into a neat plait.

And then it all goes to hell.

The soldiers burst out of the forest like a raging flood, swords swinging by their sides. The sound of horses’ hooves against the forest floor pounds like a heartbeat, loud and quick and  _ oh God- _

Harley’s dragging Peter up to his feet before he can blink and pushing him behind himself, using his own body as a shield. He can feel the boy shaking, hands both gripping his left arm like a lifeline as he glowers at the surrounding soldiers, watching them dismount.

“Harley,” Peter whispers, voice hoarse. 

He doesn’t need to say anything else. The fear in his voice and the way his eyes fix on the largest soldier, a man of at least six feet- about Harley’s height- with a gray beard and piercing eyes that won’t leave Harley’s.

He knows this man, not by acquaintance, but by the subtle tremor of Peter’s hands and the still-fading ring of yellow bruises around his wrists.

The man dismounts from his horse, barking out a series of incomprehensible orders and standing by as a pair of smaller, younger-looking soldiers step aside, causing a break in the circle. Harley wants nothing more than to run, Peter in tow, wants to keep him  _ safe,  _ but there’s someone in the gap and  _ God.  _

He recognizes this man.

“Father?” Peter whispers, still clutching Harley’s hand, half-hidden behind his body. 

Anthony Stark is shorter than Harley had been expecting, but his lack of height is made up for by the angry fire glowing in his eyes. Eyes, he realizes, that are the exact hickory shade Peter’s are. He marches forward, crushing the wildflowers under his boots, and suddenly Peter is in front of Harley with his hands outstretched and his back pressed up against his chest and he sounds  _ so angry. _

He doesn’t sound like the boy Harley fell in love with.

“Stay back!” Peter barks, fingers spread wide in a  _ stop  _ gesture. The tremors that wrack his fingers are barely noticeable, a miniscule earthquake compared to their usual magnitude.

Stark’s eyes go wide at the sight of his son. To Harley’s surprise, he stops, coming to a halt four or five feet from where they’re standing in front of the fallen tree.

“Leave him alone,” Peter says, and he’s  _ talking about Harley he’s talking about Harley he’s talking about Harley- _

“He stole you,” Stark says. The anguish in his voice is palpable. Terrible. This is a man who’s lost his son and probably doesn’t understand why.

Stane steps forward to stand beside his king, and even though his tremors increase, Peter stands strong. Harley reaches down in a silent show of solidarity to take his free hand in his own, lacing their fingers together and squeezing once.

Harley squeezes back.

Peter shakes his head defiantly. “I left with him. He  _ saved  _ me.”

“From  _ what?”  _

Silence.

Peter turns to meet Harley’s eyes. The flower crown is no longer perched in his hair, lost somewhere in the field, but he’s never looked more like a prince-  _ he’s beautiful _ . Strong in his own way, in a way that Harley has never managed to be.

Wordlessly, he nods, jaw clenched as he looks down at the boy who only needed a week to send Harley head-over-heels.

Peter turns, this time to face Stane, and even though he can’t see his face, he can feel the anger radiating off of Peter’s small frame. He raises a shaking finger, exposing the barely-there bruises to the light.

“From him,” Peter murmurs.

The tension bleeds out of his body like dye from a cloth.

“He hits me. H-hard. And I was just- I was so  _ hungry,  _ father, and Harley-” Stark’s eyes flicker to Harley, who offers up a cursory nod, “-he came and offered to take me away and I went with him, father.”

So maybe he’s left out the bit where Harley nearly killed him, That’s alright. It probably wouldn’t help his case very much.

Stark jerks his head in Stane’s direction, and in a wonderfully anticlimactic ending, a pair of guards march him off into the woods with little conflict. Peter watches, eyes fixed on one of the many people who was supposed to protect him, until he grows so small he can no longer be seen.

“He’s gone now,” Stark says, voice pleading. “You can come home, Peter- you can come with me.”

Harley stiffens. Is this where it ends? Is Peter going to walk away from him, leave him after he’s fallen in  _ love  _ with him, like he was nothing more than a toy?

He has every right to.

But Peter just shakes his head, leaning further into Harley’s chest and squeezing his hand.

“I want to stay,” he whispers. Somehow the words echo around the clearing, loud and quiet and  _ important,  _ and Harley can’t hide the smile that paints its way across his face.

“I love him,” Peter says simply.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Harley watches, dumbfounded, as Peter turns around, still pressed close to him, and grips him by the collar of his shirt. Their eyes meet, honey and water, and he’s smiling, butterflies erupting in his stomach, explosions making their way through his brain.

Harley leans down, craning his neck just a bit so Peter can reach him, and he  _ kisses  _ him.

It’s just a little thing, a press of the lips. Peter’s are chapped and dry, but he’s smiling, and Harley’s smiling, hands coming to rest just below Peter’s shoulders.

“Stay with me?” He mumbles, not bothering to pull away.

The curvature of Peter’s lips is enough of an answer for him.

_ Always. _


End file.
